Erised A Mystery of Times
by TamChronin
Summary: Peter Pettigrew has died in his last year at Hogwarts, saving Snape's life! This isn't even the only thing wrong with the universe. Will they find out who is responsible, before the world as they know it is destroyed?
1. A Most Unfortunate Accident

Note: The usual disclaimers and such about fanfiction apply. I don't own any of this, etc. Also, this was written before DH came out. Please keep that in mind, when I've gotten a few of the details wrong. It's still an enjoyable story, if you can take that into account in a few spots.

Thank you, and I hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

* * *

**_Erised - A Mystery of Times_**

They say that there is a theory of time travel, where the one going back in time is like a stone being thrown into a flowing river. There may be ripples, but the water continues flowing after a moment as if nothing had happened. There was once a theory put forth by Muggles that time travel would be more like throwing a rock through a sheet of paper, and could destroy all of reality, but luckily we proved that wrong long before Muggles came up with any such analogy. So, if we look at the idea of time as water endlessly flowing downstream, with ripples and pebbles and weather constantly changing things, you can imagine what would happen if you threw enough pebbles in, or even one very large one, in some cases.

You'd change the course of the river, eventually.

You'd change the course of time.

So what, then, is a dry riverbed in the landscape of time? Does it still exist? What happens to the fish, the algae, or the leaves floating gently over the top? What happens to the rocks you've thrown in? Eventually, there are consequences.

But if that's all you've ever known, if you're a native in one particular river, and don't know what it's like downstream, what will you think? What will you know?

There's a reason time travel is so highly regulated by the Ministry of Magic and their counterparts throughout the world. Nobody wants to be a fish out of water.

**Chapter One - A Most Unfortunate Accident**

The night was dark, despite the full moon hanging in the sky. It wasn't dark because of any real lack of light. There was simply an oppressive feeling to the air, and a darkness of spirit loomed over Hogwarts that night. Howls came from the direction of Hogsmeade, and everyone, at least the students, knew that they would only get louder and closer as the night wore on.

Despite this, Severus pressed on. He was no stranger to darkness, and his curiosity was enough to drive him onward despite the growing dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach like a cold stone.

_Bezoar - a stone found in the stomach of a goat with magical properties, including neutralizing some poisons._

It was somewhat random, but it was the sort of thought that had him above the rest of the class in Potions. He couldn't help it. These things simply stuck with him, making strange associations at even stranger times.

Perhaps the thought was not entirely random, however. That's what it felt like he must have, sitting there and even making its way up so it was hard to swallow around. He ran his fingers through his hair nervously, convinced that this was just another of James Potter's stupid pranks, but wanting to see for himself, anyway. Why else would they have planted the Whomping Willow there, if not to guard secrets and treasure? He couldn't take the chance that they wouldn't be there upon searching, even if the stupid git had been the one to tell him. There'd been that strange intensity in Potter's eyes, after all, unlike any of the other nasty lies and tricks he'd pulled. And Sirius Black had seemed so reluctant for the secret to be told. It could have been good acting, but still...

Either way, he had to know for certain. It was just as likely that they'd told him so they could lord it over him later when he didn't look, and they found whatever secret was hidden there. If it was gold, he needed it far more than they did. His mother deserved better than--

He cut that thought off with a shake of his head. He was almost there, and he couldn't be thinking of her when he had to concentrate on what he was doing.

It was harder to make out the knot he was supposed to press in the dark, especially with branches swinging past him at deadly speeds. He was just out of reach, of course, and standing quite still, only his lips moving as he tried to remember the instructions. He whispered the words as if that would help him remember more clearly what it was he was looking for.

Something skittered just outside his field of vision, heading toward the tree. It was a mouse or a rat or a rabbit or some other vermin escaped on the grounds. Probably someone's escaped pet. It wouldn't have concerned him at all, but it seemed to be heading directly to the spot he was looking for.

The rodent nimbly dodged the branches as they flailed about. "What the--?" Severus stepped forward, exclaiming in his surprised as the rat (he could clearly see it was a rat now, at this distance) ran with purpose up to the trunk of the tree, then turned and looked at him directly, as if it were expecting him.

It was such a shock to him, for some reason, that he nearly got thrashed by a branch, and fell unceremoniously on his ass trying to dodge it. He heard familiar laughter a few meters away to his right, also just outside the ring of devastation that surrounded the Whomping Willow.

Black and Potter. Of course. He glared in their direction, moving backward before picking himself up and dusting himself off. "I knew this was some trick," he muttered, spotting them now as they leaned against each other.

"You don't want to be doing that," Potter said, still laughing, still leaning against his best friend. "Go back to bed. It was all a joke. Really, it's painful how gullible you are on top of being a slimy greaseball with a schnaz the size of the Atlantic."

"Pathetic," Black agreed, snickering and shaking his head. "You'd do anything for a hint of money, wouldn't you? Would you blow me, Sevvie, for a knut?"

"I still think there's something down there that you don't want me to see," Severus sneered. "And I'll find it." He was too tired to think of a wittier comeback, especially after so nearly being brained.

He glanced at the tree again, looking at the rat...

The rat that was very suddenly standing on two legs and growing rather quickly into one of Potter and Black's cohorts.

"Look out!" he was shouting, waving his arms around. "Snape, behind you!"

Snape was turning around, involuntarily, though he suspected some other trick. A shadowy figure was walking toward them, drawing out a wand, and a shiver went down his spine. It couldn't be Filch. The idiot caretaker would probably have drawn the wrong end of the wand, anyway. It had to be a teacher, then, and they were all in trouble.

"Run!" Peter Pettigrew screamed.

At the same time, the mysterious figure was whispering a spell.

A spell that Severus recognized too well.

This was not a teacher.

"Everybody ru--"

Peter's warning cries were cut off by a sickening crunch and thud. Severus tried to look in two directions at once, torn between two dangers.

The unknown won.

Severus turned to face the dark figure, dodging as if in slow motion and pulling out his wand to interrupt whatever spell was next. The first spell that sprang to his mind, _Sectumsempra_, was already on his lips when his wand flew from his hand and bounced off of a swinging branch.

He was as good as dead.

Severus straightened defiantly, ready to accept the worst. If this was his fate, so be it. He would not leave sniveling and begging for his life.

He heard the commotion and outcry behind him, but that was in another world. That was Potter and his cronies. They'd surely leave him to die. It filled him with a smug superiority to think that. In the end, they were--

They were shouting out spells and running to his side. The mysterious figure deflected the spells, growling low in frustration, then looked past Severus and nodded curtly. "Good enough," he said in a rough voice and then disappeared.

"Snape!" First Potter, and then Black, came up behind him and placed hands on his shoulders. "Are you okay?"

"Get your hands off me, you--" he began coldly, turning around and shrugging off their hands at the same time. The rest of his words simply died in his mouth, which hung as wide open as his eyes now were as he took in the scene now before him.

Neither Potter nor Black turned to look right away, having watched it as it happened. They probably didn't want to look ever again, and Severus wouldn't blame them.

It was probably a chance in a million. Everyone knew that the Whomping Willow thrashed about with bone-crushing force, but even still no one had ever thought--

Severus had thought only that Pettigrew had been knocked in the chest and winded or maybe knocked out since there had been no immediate cry of pain. He'd been too distracted afterward to note that his voice had been absent from the clamor behind him.

What he found, instead, was that the side of Pettigrew's head had been smashed in, and something else had torn into him like a great beast. He knew immediately what spell had caused it, had in fact been about to use the very same spell against the attacker. Blood was everywhere, like a garish red work of modern "art" that had so captured the simple minds of the Muggles recently.

It was that analogy alone that kept Severus together at the sight. If he thought too much about it, he wasn't sure what he would do.

"We've got to go in there and get him," he said, voice dry and raspy with emotion. "Find a stick or rock and hit that knot you--"

"No," Potter said flatly.

"I'll go get Dumbledore," Black murmured with a hand on Potter's shoulder, squeezing comfortingly for a moment.

"There's no TIME for that! He'll die if we don't--"

"It's too late," Potter interrupted again.

Severus saw Pettigrew twitch and looked at Potter as if he were mad. "No, look at him, he's still alive in there! Damn it, where's my wand? If you won't get him, I will!"

Potter grabbed him by the shoulders and shook. "You can't! Look!" He pointed to the base of the tree, to the tunnel Severus had noticed before.

If he hadn't known what spell was cast, and what its effects were, he might have blamed the creature he saw, trapped beneath the tree. Not quite wolf, not quite human...

"A werewolf!" he cried, jumping back. "Kill it, Potter! Before it escapes and kills us!"

"He won't," Potter said sadly.

"What do you mean, he won't? He's a bloody goddamn werewolf!"

Potter just slipped to his knees, staring at the creature with grief and sorrow in his eyes. "I'm sorry...Moony..."

As if it were sentient enough to reply, the werewolf began a keening howl, sounding more sorrowful than anything Severus had ever heard.

Wait. 'As if...?'

"Potter," Severus said, with a horrific realization dawning in his mind. "Is he--is that **thing** one of us? A student? Is it...is it...?"

James potter nodded weakly, looking defeated. It was a look Severus thought he'd never see on that smug face, and definitely not a look he thought he'd be sympathetic toward in all his wild imaginings. "Remus..."

Lupin? Remus Lupin was a werewolf?

Somehow, Severus thought as he heard the panicked approach of the teachers, somehow he wasn't really surprised.


	2. Minutia

Death. A state of being where there is no life left in whatever object it is that is dead.

Muggles have begun fighting over minutia, trying to decide exactly when a person is alive or dead. How long before a person is born are they alive? If their heart is kept pumping by their medical contraptions, but there is no brain activity, are they dead? Is there the potential that they will return from such a state?

It's even more confusing in the wizarding world, sometimes. Sometimes, though, it's more clear-cut.

It's pretty obvious that if you run into your best friend's ghost, they're dead. No matter how animated their body seems, it's over.

**Chapter Two - Minutia**

"I **know** it's impossible to apparate from Hogwarts grounds," Severus growled, glaring at Potter.

They were seated in Professor McGonagall's office, telling the story for what seemed like the fiftieth time, though it was probably only the third. Severus had, of course, not edited his account in the least, nor glossed over the things that it seemed Potter and Black were so eager to ignore as irrelevant to what had come of their prank. Professor McGonagall was seated at her desk, quite demanding with her constant questions, while Professor Dumbledore sat off to the side and quietly took it all in. It seemed that Professor Slughorn had been quite unwilling to be raised from the comfort of his bed at such a late hour, so Severus was surrounded by others with Gryffindor loyalties and ideals, feeling quite set upon by this inquest.

"It wasn't invisibility," Black added. "The guy just disappeared."

"That is either impossible, or a direct contradiction," said Professor McGonagall, shaking her head in exasperation. "I want you boys to tell me the truth. I don't know how you got Snape here to be in on this utter fabrication, but--"

"I'm not," Severus said, hands balled into fists at his side. "I am not their toady or crony or whatever, and I am certainly not in cahoots with them or on their side in the least, and you couldn't pay me enough to lie for them for any reason. You should be able to tell that much by what I told you of what led up to all this."

"Err, well, yes, that's--"

"The man vanished into thin air. He didn't apparate. He didn't use some sort of invisibility. It was as if he completely ceased to exist somewhere between one moment and the next."

"Yes! That's it, exactly!" Potter agreed.

Snape glared, mostly from habit. He didn't like having them agree with him so readily and absolutely. It went against the natural order of things.

"Look! One of our best friends DIED, and you're nattering on about disappearing people and--"

"Calm yourself, Mr. Black. If you're making up some story to cover up a murder--"

"PETER DIED! WE WATCHED IT HAPPEN WITH OUR OWN EYES, IN FRONT OF US, AND COULDN'T SAVE HIM AND YOU THINK _WE_ DID IT?"

"Minerva," Dumbledore's soft voice cut through the anger in the room, bringing with it a sudden quiet calm. "I do not think they are lying. If the man responsible for Peter's death, however indirect, did not apparate and did not turn invisible, we must find out how it actually happened and not jump to conclusions."

"Surely you don't think they could be telling the truth about--"

"Ah, but I do," Professor Dumbledore answered quietly, with deep sadness in his voice. "I believe every word I have heard tonight, unfortunately, and I don't think we will get anything more useful from them tonight. It is well past three in the morning...."

"So it is," McGonagall said, glancing at the clock and looking quite defeated. "Return to your rooms, and get as much rest as you can."

"Also," Dumbledore added, as they all stood and began to walk to the door, "the three of you are excused from classes for the rest of the week. I'll inform Remus in the morning that he is, as well."

"Yes, Professor," they chorused, and walked out of the room.

They all three walked down the corridor a way, and then Potter slumped against a wall and just stopped. Severus and Black hesitated, shoes making scuffling sounds on the bare stone, and then they stopped as well. Silence surrounded them until their breathing and the rustle of their school robes seemed to echo throughout the castle.

I don't have time for this, Severus thought to himself, impatiently. It wasn't as if these two were his friends, or he should feel any sort of sympathy for them.

"James," Black said, softly, reinforcing the idea that Severus should just walk away. "Are you okay?"

"Do I look okay?" Potter asked, taking off his glasses and staring wearily upward into the gloom. He swiped quickly at his eyes with the back of his arm and then replaced his glasses. "I don't think I'll ever be able to sleep again. I'll never get the image of that out of my mind."

It was something Severus could agree with, completely. Recently he'd begun to think he was strong, and cold, and completely ruthless, and he could handle anything life threw at him. He could do anything to rise above what he was now, no matter what he had to do. This, though, had proven him wrong. He felt a strange hollow weakness somewhere in his chest, and it was enough to keep him still and quiet while he listened in on words he was sure he should not be included in on.

"I know what you mean," Black said. "I mean, I still can't believe it. Peter...like that..."

"What? You didn't think he'd die fighting off Voldemort or something, did you?" Potter said with a wry grin.

Severus flinched at such a casual use of the Dark Lord's name. From Dumbledore, he could almost accept it. From someone like Potter, however, it was just arrogance. Whistling in the dark.

Black scoffed. "No. Before tonight, I think Peter would have wet himself at the thought, or maybe he'd have died of fright if they were in the same room. He certainly plucked up the courage tonight, though, didn't he? Amazing, how he ran forward like that, not caring about his own safety."

"True heart of a Gryffindor," Potter said solemnly, nodding.

"What, you don't think anyone from any other house would have the human decency to do the same?" Snape demanded, stepping forward.

"Maybe a Hufflepuff would, for a true friend. Maybe a Ravenclaw would, if they saw an inch above whatever book they're reading." Black glared defiantly and stopped there, short of the house Severus so proudly belonged to.

"Come off it," Potter said, surprisingly enough. "Slytherins aren't all monsters and villains."

Black looked at his best friend with exaggerated shock. "You _do_ remember meeting my mother, right?"

Potter hit him in the shoulder. "Snape was right. It's _human_ decency. It's got nothing to do with houses."

What in the world was making Potter say all that? Severus was completely floored and more than a little disturbed and the good will and warm fuzzy gushing from the arrogant, self-absorbed, lazy, snobbish Quidditch star.

Black just nodded slowly. "I suppose so," he said reluctantly.

"I need a drink," Potter said, replacing his glasses and straightening suddenly. "Let's go get some butterbeer."

"You're supposed to be going to your dormitories," Severus said, finally finding his voice. "Besides that, where are you going to find butterbeer, here, at this hour?"

Potter and Black exchanged looks and then walked up to Severus and grabbed him by the arms.

"You're coming with us," Potter announced, as they started pulling him along.

"What? But, but, but--" Severus sputtered, thinking they'd obviously just lost their minds.

Black nodded. "Peter died saving your scrawny, slimy, ugly arse. The least you can to do repay it is come with us for a drink and keep your mouth shut about it."

"I don't owe you two anything," Severus said, dragging his feet and struggling half-heartedly. A butterbeer did sound good right now, just not with them.

"How's that for an ingrate," Potter said, still hanging onto Severus like a barnacle. "A fellow dies for him, and he can't even be bothered to go out for a drink with his mates."

"And here he was, just telling us all about his human decency." Black shook his head, tugging on Severus without letting up in the least.

"Fine," Severus hissed, pulling his arms free at last. He couldn't begin to say how much he resented being tugged about like some piece of luggage. It was beyond undignified. "I'll go if you both _shut up._ We'll get caught, carrying on like this."

The other two glanced at each other and nodded, then led the way confidently. "I'm not too worried about getting caught, myself," Black said with a shrug. "Not this time."

"No kidding," Potter added. "After all. What are they going to do? Kill us?"

"Somehow, being expelled doesn't have the same horror it did before."

"Speak for yourselves," Severus said grumpily. "If we get expelled, we'll never figure out who did this. Personally, I want the hide of whoever it was, and I want it nailed to my living room wall."

The others stared at him in silence for a minute as they walked.

"I hadn't thought of that," Potter said, surprised.

"Obviously," Severus sneered.

"I like your style," Black added. "Fine then. You can have his skin, if it's worth having after I'm through with the bloody bastard."

"Now, now," Potter chided, "revenge sounds attractive at the moment, I'm sure, but we should wait a bit."

"Wait for what?" Black demanded, looking at his friend as if he'd lost his mind.

"Until we get to the kitchens, and can make a proper toast to our upcoming vengeance."

It was an idea that Severus found he could actually get behind.


	3. Strange Bedfellows or A Dish Best Served

Once upon a time, there was a strange medieval Muggle contraption kept in the kitchens. One year a new headmaster took it apart and began reassembling it in the great hall, just because he could.

"What is that?" a student asked.

"It is a trebuchet, Mr. Weasley," the eccentric headmaster answered with a smile.

"A ter-byeu-what?"

"Trebuchet," he said, enunciating slowly and carefully. "An ancient Muggle device used to fling things about; usually used specifically to attack fortifications."

"I thought that was a cattlepult."

"A catapult is something similar, yet different in design. I believe I've got some books..."

"Err, well, yes," young Weasley interrupted quickly, before the headmaster could force said books upon him as a 'side project' in Muggle Studies. "But what is it doing here?"

"The house elves were using it, in the kitchens, until just a few years ago when I convinced them that spells were much cleaner and more efficient."

"What were they using it for?" the student asked, bewildered.

"Flinging rubbish."

"Rubbish?"

"Yes. In the middle of the night, they'd fling the rubbish out a window. Not very efficient, but it did keep them amused. Especially when a student was out of bounds in the late evening." The headmaster sounded rueful at this one, as if he knew firsthand what he was talking about.

This conversation was kept alive in the oral tradition of the Weasley family for generations, until a young boy named Arthur heard it, and grew fascinated with it and all things having to do with Muggles.

**Chapter Three - Strange Bedfellows or A Dish Best Served Cold**

James and Sirius snuck back into Gryffindor tower some time just before dawn. Everyone else was fast asleep, and they knew that Remus would be escorted in soon. They were well used to losing sleep on nights like tonight, and sneaking in right around the same time as this so they wouldn't get caught.

They were usually sneaking another of their number into their own room, not someone else into the Slytherin dormitories.

"James," Sirius said quietly, as they slipped into their beds.

"Yeah?"

There was a long pause, and then Sirius sighed and shook his head. "Nothing. Never mind."

James nodded, setting his glasses aside and pulling the covers up over his shoulders. He thought he understood, even without words. It was still too raw and new to talk about what had happened, without getting completely overboard with grief. Still, he stared numbly at Peter's bed, and a lump formed in his throat.

"That's three," he whispered to himself. Two students in their dorm room, gone. Last year, over summer break, there'd been an attack on the Prewett family by Death Eaters. Gideon Prewett had invited them all over to visit with his family, but only Ernie Pince, their other roommate, had gone. When James and the others had arrived at the start of the year, the two beds had been removed, leaving only his own, Sirius's, Remus's, and Peter's.

How long would it be, before Peter's bed disappeared with the others? Would they owl Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew first and let them come and collect his things? Or would they gather it all up first thing and try to pretend as if Peter hadn't been there in the first place.

This was different, though. This wasn't Death Eaters. Peter hadn't died at Voldemort's hands, or the hands of one of his sycophants. This shouldn't be a question of morale or pressing forward. It was...

What was it?

Who had that mysterious figure been? What was the dark spell that had all but finished Peter, ensuring that he'd die quickly of blood loss rather than just living on with his brains scrambled? If you thought about it, really, it was probably a mercy.

A very painful, gruesome, and cruel mercy.

Could mercy be cruel?

James rolled over, covering his head with is pillow to shut out the rest of the world. Maybe that would help him think of other things. Anything. Burning hate and rage. That would be much better than the helpless feeling that always came with the news of an attack, or the loss of yet someone else he knew.

It had to be a Death Eater. Who else would use dark magic to kill and terrorize mere students, even if the four of them were in their seventh years at Hogwarts?

The air shifted a little, so he knew that Remus must be back. From beneath his pillow he heard talking, but he was in no mood to listen in. He kept the pillow over his head for a bit longer, until there was silence in the room, and then he sat up and looked over at Remus.

"You look like hell," he said, voice rough with the need to sleep.

"So do you," Remus said softly. "More than usual."

They both looked over at Sirius, who was snoring loudly and sprawled across the bed in genuine sleep.

Remus and James then looked at each other for a minute, and slowly their eyes were drawn to the empty bed in the room.

"I couldn't believe it, when they told me," Remus whispered. "Even seeing all the blood beneath the tree..."

James nodded. "I saw it happen, and I still can't believe it."

There was a long few moments of silence; maybe a minute's worth, maybe ten. Remus finally looked at James and leaned against one of the bedposts. "And he really saved...Snape...?"

"Yeah," James said, shaking his head and a little relieved that he wouldn't have to tell every detail of the whole story again so soon. He really didn't want to talk about it at all. "We took him off to raid the kitchen stores and liberate a few butterbeers, too. Pity the house elves wouldn't give us anything stronger, being students and all."

"You. And Sirius. With Snape?"

The idea seemed to have broken Remus's mind, when added to everything else.

"Yeah. We're going to kill the bastard who killed Peter. Kill him a lot. Well, Snape's doing it since he was the one who was going to be attacked, or maybe because he was too insignificant to kill in the end after all, but either way. Yeah. Snape's in it for his own ends, and I don't care. He might be a slimy Slytherin traitor, but better to have him on our side than the other."

"James? Are you sure that's you in that skull?" Remus was continuing to look at him as if he were babbling in some other language. "If I weren't so exhausted, I'd go feel your forehead to see if you're delirious. In fact, for my own sanity, I'll just assume you are."

"Come off it," James said, flopping backward and staring up at the canopy on his bed. "You've seen him. He's a natural at potions, and he hates me so much he's become fairly decent at other things just to try to show me up. I thought it was pathetic, really, but he'd actually make a good ally, if we keep an eye on our own backs."

"I'm not saying you're wrong," Remus said slowly. "I'm just surprised at the change of heart, after all I've been trying to say all this time."

James nodded, knowing that was true. He put his answer together carefully, and spoke slower than usual when he did. "Peter died, saving his life. I can't let that be in vain. Hell, if Peter had died saving Voldemort, I'd spend my last breath trying to turn him into someone worth the sacrifice. I should be thankful it's just Snape."

"Wow. I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Yeah," James said softly, still staring straight upward, afraid to blink in case the motion prompted the tears to fall from his eyes instead of just sit there. "I'll turn him into a decent human being, if it kills me. And I hope we'll kill whoever did this, along the way."

"Hopefully, the other guy will die first," Remus said, and then yawned loudly. "You should get some sleep. It'll be good for you."

"I can't. I've got revenge to plot."

He was already the only one left awake in the room, however, when he said it.


	4. A Fire That Freezes

Before the 1960s, Muggle science really only duplicated things that had already been done by magic before, but in strange and unusual new ways. Magic grew in leaps and bounds, where for a long time scientific improvement crawled at a snail's pace. Even when the modern achievements hurtled Muggle science faster and further than imaginable before, it repeated things that had been done and perfected by wizards long before.

Around the time Albus Dumbledore began his long and illustrious career at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, Muggles had turned their sights to something beyond magic's reach.

Space.

Oh, plenty of wizards and witches had been launched into orbit by some way or another. It was even possible to survive, if one was quite careful in their use of a great many spells. It wasn't worth it, though, for more than map making, and even that was easier when new spells automated the process so it no longer required the mapmaker to visually survey what he wished to map.

When news reached the wizard world that the United States Muggle president said, in 1961, that they were going to land on the moon by the end of the decade, Muggles and wizards alike were joined in the belief that this was impossible. They were also joined in the hope that it was not.

Wizards bent their wills to the project just as vigorously as the Muggle scientists that were their counterparts.

In the end, though, only one group succeeded.

Science had outstripped magic at last.

Certain wizards saw this, and could no longer look upon Muggles as their unfortunate cousins, handicapped by a mental lack.

Others felt threatened by Muggle power, and worked harder than ever to weaken and degrade Muggles, to take that power back. They did not think of it this way consciously, but such wizards were clearly becoming more desperate to prove their superiority.

The rift in the wizard world between these two attitudes was at its widest, ever, and it did not take a genius to take advantage of it.

Just a megalomaniac, born to a witch and a Muggle, abandoned at birth, who felt he had something to prove.

**Chapter Four - A Fire That Freezes**

James got up and went to his classes anyway, leaving his friends behind to get all the rest they could. His professors looked at him funny, in every class, but no one said a word. They gave him sympathetic looks for a few moments, but he seemed to look through them until the class actually began, and then he applied himself with a fervor they were quite unused to seeing from him. He was usually so laid back that they all assumed he was simply a natural at everything they could throw at him.

Well, with a little prompting and a bit of help from Remus, he usually was.

He needed something to distract himself with, though. Desperately.

Unfortunately, there simply weren't enough classes in the day. He found himself alone at lunch, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to remedy that or not. There had been no announcements, but it seemed like everyone knew and they all watched him with concerned, sad, or even frightened eyes.

Whatever the rumors were, he didn't feel up to correcting them. He was sure he looked at least as bad as he felt, and he wasn't the only one.

Snape had also been to every class, and was furiously filling some parchment with something that looked to the untrained eye like chicken scratch.

James tapped him on the head with one of his books, lightly. "Couldn't sleep?"

Snape just nodded curtly, not bothering to look up.

"Can I talk to you?"

"You already are, unless you've reinvented the word."

The whispers rushed through the Great Hall like a spreading wildfire, slower only than the covert glances and the outright stares. James heard the word "fight" whispered and murmured a few times, and had to restrain himself from yelling to the whole room to stop being a bunch of nimrods and jumping to conclusions. It irritated him that that's all they thought of him, when Snape was involved. Never mind the fact that until last night they'd have been right to think it. Today it still got on his nerves.

"I meant outside, where we're not the center of attention."

Snape looked at him coldly. "Is that even possible with you?"

James waited a minute, but Snape wasn't budging. He finally sighed, picked up Snape's books and a bit of food, and started walking out of the room despite Snape's protests. The volume of the murmurs in the Great Hall rose dramatically as he did so, but he didn't care.

"What do you think you're doing?" Snape demanded, flailing wildly as he followed James out onto the grounds. "I was in the middle of something!"

"When's the last time you got out in the sun? You're not a vampire, you know. A tan won't kill you."

"Your concern for the color of my skin deeply moves me, I'm sure," Snape said, rolling his eyes. "It's hardly a reason to abscond with my personal affects and humiliate me in front of the entire school. Again."

"Oh, please," James said. "That wasn't humiliation, and you know it."

Snape just glared, sitting down right where they were.

"Hey, we're sitting down under that tree!" James pointed to the spot he usually haunted with his friends.

"I'm sitting here. I like it right here, and I'm not one of your groupies to be ordered about, besides. Take it or leave it."

James sighed and sat down. Making a friend out of this antisocial outcast was going to be a lot more work than he thought. "Here it is, then."

Snape looked surprised for a moment, but he covered it up quickly with a scowl. "Where are your shadows?"

"Aside from the dead one, you mean?" James replied with a sour expression. The lack of sleep was starting to add a slightly surreal feel to the whole situation.

"You win the 'stating the obvious' award for the day. How's it feel?"

"I'll set it on my trophy shelf with the rest."

Someone on the other side of the world would probably have seen Snape's irritation at that comment as easily as their own hand in front of their eyes, it was so obvious and intense. "Give me my things, Potter."

"Promise me you'll stay out here with me, first. I guess we don't have to talk if you don't want, but don't leave."

The expression turned into confusion on top of the irritation. "What are you playing at, this time?"

"I just don't want to be alone," James said, lying back on the grass. "I didn't think you'd want to be, either, after last night. Otherwise you'd have stayed in your room."

Snape looked at him, expression almost blank except for a disarming curiosity. That was all, though, and then he grabbed his things and pulled out the paper he'd been writing on. "I suppose so," he muttered quietly as he started writing again.

"What are you doing?" James said, crawling over to look. "Good lord, is that your actual handwriting? How do you manage to read it?"

"Shut up, Potter," Snape said as he bent closer. "I can read it just fine."

"But, what is it?"

"I'm writing down everything that happened last night, so I can keep it straight. That way I won't lose any details over time, and I won't have to constantly think about it later. Also, I can blackmail you and your friends with it, later."

"Spoken like a true Slytherin," James said with a slight chuckle.

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

Snape looked up at him with a pointed gaze. "Perhaps not to you, but that's why you're just a Gryffindor, isn't it?"

"Just?"

"Meaning 'merely', 'only', or 'simply'. They'll let any imbecile into Hogwarts these days, won't they?"

"Of course. They let you in, after all."

Snape shot him a dirty look, but he returned to the narrative before him.

"You know," James mused, "you won't be able to use that as blackmail if no one in the world can read it but you."

"Shut up, Potter."

"Just an observation," he said with a grin. When Snape didn't answer him, James just grinned wider and looked up at the clear sky, breathing in the scent of the grass and flowers. It was such a beautiful day. Hardly the sort of day you'd expect to follow a night like last night.

The grin turned into a grimace and he rolled over onto his stomach. What he wanted to do was play Quidditch. He wanted to be up on his broom, facing impossible odds and beating them all to the cheer of a crowd. There was no practice until Monday, though, and this was only Wednesday. By Monday it would probably be wet and rainy, as autumn reasserted itself and took back what had been, for the last week or so, blessedly summer-like weather.

"Do you think they'll have a big funeral, this weekend? Have the whole school turn out?"

"For a friend of yours? Probably." Snape said bitterly, nose an inch from the parchment. "If I'd died last night, probably not."

"You know what your problem is, Snape?"

"No, but I'm sure you'll tell me."

"Of course I will," James said loftily. "That's what friends are for."

"I'm not your friend. I don't make friends with stupid wankers."

"After last night, you're stuck with me. With all of us. Now--"

"I'm NOT going to take Pettigrew's place in your idiotic little gang!"

"No," James agreed, barely holding back a glare. "You're not being invited to. No one could ever take Peter's place, and I cannot tell you how presumptuous and arrogant it is, even to my ears, that you'd say such a thing." He looked coldly at Snape for a minute, making sure that the Slytherin wouldn't try to interrupt him again. It worked, getting the message across clearly that this was not something Snape wanted to challenge him on. "We are, however, allies now. I'd prefer to be friendly allies, personally, and I'm sure you'd see the benefit of it yourself if you'd stop and think about it for a minute. There's too much at stake to worry about any of us watching our backs and everyone else's wands. Be paranoid after this is through, Severus. I--" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "Never mind. I'm offering, hesitantly, friendship on top of our truce. Think about it. I'm going to go wake up my friends."

He stood up and stormed off, leaving Snape to whatever dark thoughts he might have after that. James was too upset, his emotions too close to the surface, to do much more than that.


	5. Nothing To Speak Of

Back to time travel. I know, I know, that old thing? We covered that before the first chapter! How dare you, the author, come back to lecture us about that again?

Sorry?

Time travel is such a heavily guarded secret, and so closely regulated, that many wizards and witches don't even think of it as an alternative. Why would they? So many things could go wrong with it, after all. Killing yourself, becoming your own ancestor, and all that hassle. They were cliché long before Muggle speculative fiction authors got a hold of the concept centuries later.

It is still used, however. In the Ministry of Magic, there are at least one hundred and twenty seven time twisters sitting on the shelf at any time. Those are the ones that are approved for ministry use, too, not the confiscated ones they have set aside for later disposal. No one knows for sure how many of those there are.

There are also other means of time travel less well known, even to the most studious and well-informed witches and wizards.

You don't need to know that, however. If you did, you'd have some intimate knowledge of the _obliviate_ spell to share with others.

Oh, wait, no you wouldn't.

**Chapter Five - Nothing To Speak Of**

Hermione Granger chewed on the tip of a lock of hair, staring at the book before her with rapt fascination. It was an action she only got away with at Hogwarts, since her parents were constantly on her case about sticking only things that are food in her mouth, and even that was carefully regulated to prevent candies and sweets from rotting their precious daughter's teeth.

She tugged at the corner of the page, not quite ready to turn it, but eager to get to the next gem of information.

Damp hair hit her cheek and she realized what she'd been doing. "Ew." She brushed the hair aside, wrinkling her nose.

That was all, though. She was so engrossed in her book that she didn't notice anything else. She certainly didn't notice when a younger girl walked in and plopped down on her bed, staring at her.

"Hermione."

No reaction. Not even a glance.

"Hello! Are you in there?" The redhead waved her hands around.

"Nnn."

It was something, but not enough.

"Hermione!" Ginny grabbed the book and tugged it out of her hands.

"Ginny!" Hermione stared in shock.

"Great! We know our names now!" Ginny replied with false cheer.

Hermione rolled her eyes and snatched back her book. "What is it? This was really interesting..."

"So, you did lose track of the time, then."

"What?" Hermione looked out the window, wondering when late afternoon had suddenly become so dark.

"We were supposed to meet after supper? You were going to help me with my Muggle Studies homework?"

"I missed supper?" Hermione looked shocked, clutching the book to her chest.

"Apparently," said Ginny. "I'd have brought you something, if I'd realized."

"No, it's okay," Hermione said slowly. "I'm not even hungry."

"What is it that you're reading, anyway? It's not like you to just blow someone off like this. I mean, I don't mind, but you had me worried."

"Oh, this?" Hermione squeaked, hugging the book even closer. "It's nothing. I mean, nothing that anyone else would be interested in, I'm sure."

"You know you've never been good at lying," Ginny said, flopping on Hermione's bed. "Besides the fact that you've never in your life said that before about a book you were reading, that is. What is it that you're trying to keep secret from me? Is it full of dirty stories, or something?" She grinned suddenly, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Come on! Share, if it is! Please?"

Hermione looked positively scandalized. "Dirty--what? You think that I would...would...would...?"

"Not in a million years," Ginny sighed. "You're too goody-goody for that."

This was met by a faint blush. "I'm not all that goody-goody, but you're probably right. I'd be terrified of being caught."

"Just for another year, though, right?"

Hermione nodded slowly. "I suppose so. It's funny to think, I still don't know yet what I want to do after this. I mean, there's so much open to me, and it's all rushing at me so fast."

"I know what you mean. In another year I'll be in the same position. You know what I think you should do, though? I think you should continue on, to become a professor. It would be perfect for you, even if it meant you'd never get to read dirty stories."

They both giggled at that, and Hermione shook her head. "I'd hope not, at least. Really, can you imagine Professor McGonagall, or Professor Flitwick, hiding a book of dirty stories in their offices?"

This set them off laughing in earnest, and then Ginny squeaked and bent closer, whispering conspiratorially. "Or even, Professor Riddle?"

Hermione's eyes and mouth went perfectly round. "Never in a million years!" she exclaimed, and then doubled over with laughter.

"I know!" Ginny gasped. "He'd probably rather die!"

The laughter went on for quite some time, as they named various teachers, but none of them were quite as hilarious as the thought of Professor Riddle leaning furtively over a book, scanning the pages for whatever kinky sexual thing might actually turn him on. It was scary and disgusting and the funniest thing they'd ever thought of.

The chuckles finally died down and they sprawled there, just breathing and rubbing their sides and their cheeks, afraid to say anything else for fear of setting each other off again. It took a while before they were under control again, and a while after that before Ginny finally sighed and rolled onto her side. "I needed that, and I'm sure you did, also."

"Yes," Hermione agreed readily. "This last year has been sheer hell, and I can't remember the last time I've laughed so hard. Thanks, Ginny."

"Any time. Hopefully someone will do something for me like this next year."

"I'm sure they will."

Ginny shrugged a little, figuring Hermione was probably right, but not counting on it. "Now, tell me what you've been reading? I'll die of curiosity if you don't tell me."

"It's just research for a paper," she replied, pulling the book to her again. She glanced around the room to make sure they were alone, then showed Ginny the cover.

Ginny's eyes grew wide. "Time travel," she whispered in awe. "That's years beyond even you, Hermione!"

"Professor Riddle doesn't think so," she said defensively.

Ginny bit her lower lip and just nodded. Her parents had had a few things to say about Riddle and his appointment as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, but it really wasn't something she could just come out and say. "I'm sure he'd know then, wouldn't he?"

"He _is_ a professor, after all," Hermione said softly. "And, he does seem to know quite a bit about the Dark Arts. I mean, we've almost all gotten an O on our O.W.L.s, haven't we? Even Ron."

"He just scares me," she whispered.

"Me too," Hermione admitted quietly. "But we're almost out of here, right?"

"Right."


	6. Those Too Weak To Seek It

In at least one version of reality, a great man once said, "There is no good and evil. There is only power and those too weak to seek it."

It's a debatable concept, of course. Everyone has a different idea of what the words "good" or "evil" actually mean. They're very slippery ideas, even if to an eleven-year-old facing the man who murdered his parents these concepts may seem absolute. The boundaries do seem to waver in most minds with age and experience, though.

Power, on the other hand, is a rather immediate idea. It is getting your way. It is doing what you want, when you want it. Any child understands power. If you cry and your mother makes it all better, you have power and are content. If no one comes, and you are left to cry while growing more and more upset, you are powerless and miserable.

It is easy to see how this great man, powerless throughout his childhood, would come to such a conclusion. If you were to add to powerless that he was unloved...

Ah, but love is another sort of power, and we can explore that one later.

**Chapter Six - Those Too Weak To Seek It**

The head of Slytherin house said it at least once a week, without any qualms or resentments. "Excellent work, Miss Granger. Another ten points for Gryffindor." He'd started out at fifty in her first year, but he pointed out that if he kept that up all seven years, she'd be solely responsible for their winning the House Cup every year, and it was supposed to be an award for every interested party, not just her.

Hermione, for her part, felt her cheeks warm every time he said anything to her, and wondered if it were too late to change houses. He was much older, yes, of course, but he was the sort of man who grew more handsome and distinguished with age. Besides that, it was his mind she respected and wanted to be closer to. At least, that's what she told herself every day when she left Professor Riddle's room.

She kept her opinions to herself, however, since no one else seemed to share them. She'd long ago stopped defending him to others, who thought that though he was quite charming, there was something spooky or scary about him. Perhaps it was because her parents were Muggles, and she hadn't heard from them what sorts of things were whispered about him behind his back. Mostly though, she just didn't see what they did. They said there was something cold about his eyes and dead behind his smile. Even his kindness was calculated. What she heard most, and trained her mind to tune out the hardest, was that there was something altogether inhuman about him.

Hermione had tried so hard, in fact, to tune that out that for years she hadn't even see it anymore. Yes, of course, there'd been something different about him when she'd been younger. She had been so new to magic at all, though, that she'd written it off. Everyone was unusual in their own way, weren't they?

Weren't they?

When she'd started her project on time travel, she'd been open to herself that she had a typical teenage crush on her teacher. It was silly, and nothing would ever come of it, but it was there and she could no longer deny it. She was particularly firm with herself when he agreed to work very close with her, after hours, to make sure that she performed her experiments in the strictest of safety.

Of course she was giddy! Any girl with a crush would be. It was her chance to shine, and to get to know him better, and to have his full and undivided attention. She was logical enough to know her desires were futile and emotional enough to still thrill at the idea that maybe, just maybe, they weren't as futile as she thought.

He was just as untouchable as ever, of course, but he was also just as elaborate with his praise. It brought her longing to a peak, where she would do anything to get closer to him.

Anything.

She'd come up with an excuse to see him, much later than usual. She brought her research notes with her, a question she didn't truly need the answer for repeated over and over until she was confident it would come out right. She prayed he would not be able to tell, as he always seemed to, that the question was contrived just for a chance to speak with him again.

The door to his office was open just the slightest bit, and her heart was pounding loud enough to drown out everything but the monstrously loud sound of her own feet (or so it seemed to her, in her attempt to be stealthy.)

A few deep breaths later, she began to raise her hand to knock anyway, but that amount of time was enough to stall her further, for she heard something unusual coming from within the room. There was a whispering sort of hiss, in some language she barely recognized as a language. Instead of knuckles, her fingertips met the door and brushed it just a bit further open instead of the soft knock she'd intended.

She didn't make a sound.

She barely dared to breathe.

There'd been rumors that the large tank in his office held a snake. Then again, there were rumors that he had a thousand other things stored in his office, as well. She'd never seen anything out of the ordinary, herself, before now. Students usually did not spend much time in that room, either, even when they had business in there, so it was a source of much speculation. Hermione had always rolled her eyes at the rumors and studiously made a point of not looking for anything strange when she was invited in, so that she could feel smugly superior to those who had nothing better with their time than to say such horrible things about her favorite instructor.

She could not refuse to see it, this time. The top of the tank was opened, and half of a very large snake was sticking out of it. The other half was wrapped around Professor Riddle. Some instinctual part of her mind screamed that he was in danger and would surely be eaten, but she already knew better. It was more like the loving embrace of an old friend or family member than the death squeeze of a vicious predator.

This second impression was reinforced by the gentle and loving caresses Professor Riddle showered upon the serpent, and the cold smile he gave it as he hissed to it in Parseltongue.

That was all that was going on, but for some reason it was as if an enchantment of some sort had been lifted, and she began in that moment to see him as everyone else had. Something was wrong, twisted, and terrifying about Professor Riddle.

Worst of all, Hermione wasn't sure if that lessened or increased her crush on him. She only knew that the longer she stood there, the more uncomfortable she became. She could not bring herself to move, though, even as the snake slowly looked her over before coiling possessively one more loop around Professor Riddle. She thought she could almost hear the snake's voice in her mind, claiming possession of him above any silly mudblood girl....

It's not a word Hermione would ever even think, but at that moment she felt it stab through her soul and lay seeds of self-doubt in her mind where none had been before.

Was it her imagination, or a trick of the light, or was that actually a smug grin upon Professor Riddle's mouth that she saw, just before she turned away and closed her eyes.

"Miss Granger, do close the door on your way out."

She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, squeaking slightly as she choked back her reaction to being caught. Hermione then closed the door quickly and ran from the room, not stopping until she reached her own bed.

That night, Hermione was woken, shivering, from no less than seven nightmares.


	7. Once Upon Some Times

Sleep is a sanctuary easily breached. When you are asleep, you are usually alone in your thoughts, sorting out your day and dreaming of things you couldn't imagine thinking of the rest of the time. You play out fantasies. Wishes and fears become one, and even the one who is sleeping can sometimes not tell one from the other.

It is a sanctuary because most wizards would not bother trying. They've got their own dreams to deal with, after all, without getting into someone else's and trying to figure out the mass amounts of new symbology and sorting out the layers upon layers of meaning.

Still, there is some appeal to a few witches and wizards. It is mostly those who cannot handle reality themselves, but once in a while a person's dreams will become the playground of the unscrupulous, gaining secrets or influence from their helpless victim. To those sorts, there is no hesitation. There are no limits to what they will do to gain power.

**Chapter Seven - Once Upon Some Times**

Ginny was asleep in Hermione's bed. She didn't mind it in the least. In fact, it was comforting to her, after a week of nightmares and jumping at shadows.

It had felt so good to laugh, and even better for some reason to admit out loud that Professor Riddle scared her, after all this time.

"For someone who is supposed to be the smartest girl in school, I'm certainly an idiot," she whispered to herself.

Anyone could memorize books, though, if they had the drive to do it. It was a matter of application, determination, and will. It was a matter of ambition. Hermione had always had all of those, and then some to spare. She craved recognition for her efforts, and thrived on congratulations for a job well done.

It was her greatest weakness. It was the chink in her armor.

To be praised.

Nothing else would rob her of her judgment and send her beyond reason with joy than flattery that seemed sincere about something she'd worked hard at.

Nothing irritated her more than someone else getting recognition for something they did not deserve, especially if it robbed her of her own chance to shine.

She was aware of this weakness, actually. She was quite aware of it, in fact. All week she'd chided herself for it, as soon as she'd walked out of Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. Still she fell prey of it, blushing and raising her hand and acting like a kitten in need of being petted whenever there was a chance she might engender some hint of praise from Professor Riddle.

The problem was that she wasn't sure if it was a flaw, really. Doing one's best was a good thing, and it was only right to be appreciated for it. She was surprised more people didn't agree, but that wasn't really her problem. It just made her shine brighter, in the end. Of course, she also took pride in helping out her friends, to see them succeed as well as she did.

Pride, pride, pride, it was all about pride. That was not the end all and be all of who she was, though. It didn't have to consume her.

So, why did it?

Perhaps it was because she didn't have anything greater to believe in. She'd always wondered what it would be like, if she did.

That's the last coherent thought she had before she, too, drifted off to sleep.

_Lately, Hermione's dreams have grown increasingly strange. Her dreams have never made sense to her, but she's plagued by the growing feeling that something is off. Since the project began, there's been the same old man, who is the same little boy, and he always looks at her with bright blue eyes as if she is the key to fixing it all. Sometimes he looks to be around ten years old and has bright auburn hair and somewhat old-fashioned clothes. Most of the time, though, he's an old man. He wears glasses and has a long gray beard and his nose is long and crooked. She thinks that that is how Merlin must have once looked, but she knows that that's not his name. She thinks of him as Arthur, though that's not his name either, but she's sure she's gotten the first letter right at least._

_It doesn't matter. There's something about him that is the opposite of Professor Riddle. She doesn't feel drawn to him or attracted to him, but there is something warm about him that makes her just like being in the same dream with him. He's gentle and kind, and she knows that he would not shower her with excessive praise. He would simply expect the best from her, and accept what her best is. It is somehow more flattering and fulfilling than Riddle's grand words and great show._

_She's not sure why she thinks this way about him, though. She's not sure why she compares them in her mind. She feels like there's some reason, and that it's very important, but she doesn't know why._

_The more she works on her time travel project, though, the more she sees him. He's trying to tell her something important, but she doesn't know what._

_Tonight, they're vivid. Immediate and real and full stereo and Technicolor._

_Tonight, it's time for the dreams to become real._

The old man sat in a room devoid of setting. Everything around both of them was completely surrounded by a wall of gray mist, except for a desk and two chairs. All three were oversized and ornate and appeared ancient, and she knew they must be part of the Hogwarts furniture somewhere, but she'd never had reason to be in the headmaster's office and did not recognize them.

"Ah, yes, at last, Miss Granger. Please, sit down."

She was startled, but took the seat on the other side of the desk. "You're the man I keep dreaming about, aren't you?"

He nodded, leaning toward her with his hands resting easily on top of the desk. "That's right, and still right as this is still a dream. I am Albus Dumbledore."

"Just a dream?" Hermione slumped in disappointment, having somehow expected something more.

"Not entirely," he said slowly, cocking his head to the side as if considering his words carefully. "The dream is simply the medium I have to use, to contact you here and now."

"Here and now? Does that mean you are from...some other place or time?"

"In a matter of speaking." Dumbledore smiled. "From the same place, and only a year behind where you are now, but a different reality entirely."

"I knew it!" she squeaked excitedly. "You're what happens when someone goes back in time and plays with history, aren't you? I was right!"

"Actually, Miss Granger, you are."

Hermione opened her mouth to reply to that, but no sound came out. What did he mean? How could she be? What event had been changed to create the world she was in now, and what did that mean for her future?

"I...I don't understand."

"Actually, at this point it is rather difficult to tell which timeline is the least touched by the contamination that has plagued reality here. However, in most timelines I am quite alive, and am the headmaster at Hogwarts. In yours, however, I was murdered at the age of ten and a half, under most mysterious circumstances, by a wizard who was never caught."

"Then, how are you here, and able to talk to me now?"

"It actually helps that I am not present in your reality at all. I am, if I may put aside modesty for a moment, a rather accomplished Legilimens. You do of course know what--"

"Yes, of course. A witch of wizard who knows Legilimency, which is extracting thoughts and feelings from another, similar to what Muggles think of as mind reading but--"

"Thank you, Miss Granger. That will do." He smiled proudly at her, and instead of feeling slighted by being interrupted, she felt that familiar warm comfort that so strangely surrounded him. "I am not here to grade you on your knowledge. I simply want to make sure you know what it is I will be asking of you."

"Yes, sir," she said, nodding slightly. Just after the words came out she questioned herself calling him "sir", when he seemed like just a kindly old man. Yes, he may have been headmaster at Hogwarts somewhere else, but he certainly wasn't at her Hogwarts. Still, he somehow just seemed like someone that one would want to call "sir" out of respect.

He smiled, and she could tell he appreciated the compliment. "You must understand," he went on now, with a more serious and somber expression, "how very difficult this is, to speak to you from another timeline."

"Yes, of course, it would have to be."

"So, when I say we need your help, and no other Hermione I have found can help us more than you can, I want you to know that we cannot afford false modesty. I need your help, your friend Ron needs your help, and I think that most of all, Harry needs your help."

She looked at him blankly for a minute. "Harry?" The only Harry she knew-- "You can't possibly mean Harry Potter, can you?"

Dumbledore nodded slowly, though. "That is exactly who I mean."

"Isn't he a bit beyond my help, sir?" She looked at him as if he were insane. "Harry Potter, and his entire family, died five years ago."

"If that is the case," the old man stated, looking older than ever, "then he needs your help more than I suspected."

Hermione stared. "Do you mean to say, sir, that I could possibly save him?"

"I mean to say, Hermione Granger, that you are the only one who could."


End file.
